


for what it's worth (i'm desperate)

by emptyswimmingpools



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Mob, Attempt at Humor, Enemies to Lovers, Idiots in Love, M/M, Many Eyebrows Are Raised, Moral Dilemmas, shyanexchange2k18, shyanwritingevents, strawberry milkshakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-07 08:26:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15904581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptyswimmingpools/pseuds/emptyswimmingpools
Summary: Tinsley doesn't like Goldsworth, but he's quite literally the lesser of two evils.Or: a detective and a mobster must work together to defeat a much greater threat.





	for what it's worth (i'm desperate)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [big_brother_wrath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/big_brother_wrath/gifts).



> I spent way too much time on this for how _short_ it turned out to be. To big_brother_wrath - you asked for dark stuff and I gave you humour instead because my brain is a piece of shit. I did include ~the battle of morality~ though. Anyway, I AM SO SORRY. *Ryan voice* That being said, I do hope you and anyone else reading enjoys this!
> 
> Title from Dancing With a Wolf by All Time Low. Banger.

C.C. Tinsley isn’t real. Or, at least, he doesn’t quite feel it. Like he might be running under an alter ego, a slightly altered version of himself he doesn’t quite know. There’s nothing constant in his life: cases change, criminals come and go, his moral alignment falters each week. Is this justifiable? Were they completely wrong? He’s seen tears, blood, so much trauma he can’t manage to keep himself tethered to reality. So, yes. Tinsley isn’t real, in a metaphorical sense of the word. But there’s a nagging in the back of his head that says he wants to be.

 

.

 

“So how are we going to do this?”

 

It all starts on a Tuesday morning. The sky is blue, he’s sat at iHOB, he had a solid 8 hours of sleep. It  _ should _ be an average day, except for one detail. Across the table from him is mobster Ricky Goldsworth, his unofficial number one enemy as a detective, sipping languidly on a strawberry milkshake.

 

The weirdest detail about this situation isn’t even that. It’s that Tinsley is doing this behind his boss’s back. He loves his boss - Captain Q. Brunson - but he’s not close enough to her that she’s the first person he’d go to if he ever received a very serious death threat. Really, neither is Goldsworth (obviously), but the situation is much more complicated than he anticipated. There’s a rival mob in town, and they were initially seen as being a very little threat to both the community and the authority. But overnight, they’ve effectively wiped out half of Goldsworth’s mob, and Tinsley just didn’t know what to do.

 

“I am literally as clueless as you are,” Tinsley replies honestly. He picks at his stack of pancakes, cutting them into bite-size chunks but not having the strength to eat them. He feels so sick, he can barely smell the food without wanting to vomit.

 

Goldsworth raises an eyebrow. “You called me here, so we both know that isn’t true.” He takes a prolonged gulp of his milkshake.

 

“I can assure you,” he says, finally putting his fork down, “that it is.”

 

Goldsworth sighs dramatically. “Guess I’ll just go then…” 

 

“Please don’t.” Goldsworth smiles, sits back down. “So the deal is that my life is in danger, your life is in danger, and we both need help saving our asses.”

 

“See, the thing is, Tins, that I don’t need help. I have three knives on me right now and I will never be afraid to use them.” There’s something innately cruel about Goldsworth. He’s cunning, he knows Tinsley needs something from him. There’s satisfaction dripping from his lips and his wide eyes are staring him down in a way that means:  _ Beg. _ And Tinsley’s hit a low enough point in such a short span of time that he’s not above it.

 

_ I hate you _ , he thinks. What he actually says is, “But  _ I  _ do.”

 

“Why should I help you? You’ve been trying to arrest me and my accomplices for the past five years.”

 

“I’ll do you a favour.”

 

This is a very, very dangerous thing to say and Tinsley knows it. A favour can lead to anything. It can range from buying someone a coffee to discreetly burying a body. But he knows Goldsworth won’t agree if he doesn’t make himself vulnerable.  _ I hate you _ , he thinks again, but with the utmost anger the voice in his head can possibly muster.  _ Fuck. _

 

“OK.”

 

“OK?”

 

“OK.”

 

“That’s it?” Tinsley doesn’t trust him. He really thought he’d end up on his knees or something else embarrassing. Not that he isn’t thankful, but he’s always seen Goldsworth and the other mobsters as heartless, or at least morally grey.

 

“And you gotta keep Marchbank safe. Don’t ask me why, just do it.”

 

TJ Marchbank is the leader of Goldsworth’s mob - officially. Goldsworth does the majority of the dirty work, is his right-hand man, so Tinsley always refers to their group as Goldsworth’s in his head. He doesn’t have a clue why Goldsworh would want to protect someone who does so little for him, but he lets it go. He lets it all go. He doesn’t think about how many crimes he’s writing off, how he’s working with a murderer, how his boss is most definitely going to fire him when she finds out. “I’ll do it,” he agrees, holding a hand out across the table, hoping the mobster can’t tell how sweaty it is.

 

Goldsworth shakes his hand with a firm grip. “Pleasure doing business with you. Where do we start?”

 

Tinsley clears his throat. “So I need you to give me any relevant details you can about Bennett’s group. From there we can work out how to, you know, get rid of him.”

 

Tinsley really isn’t sure how to get rid of Brent Bennett, per se. He knows he wants to imprison the man, because he’s truly dangerous. Tinsley doesn’t like Goldsworth, he really doesn’t, but the way they’re interacting now presents nothing out of the ordinary except an overbearing ego, which makes Goldsworth the lesser of two evils. There’s a lot of ways the two of them can go about this, both legal and illegal, and Tinsley’s only concern is keeping his department safe. Even Brunson, who, rightfully so, will want to eat his guts on toast for breakfast.

 

“I have an… appointment, we’ll say, in ten minutes. We can meet up again tomorrow,” says Goldsworth, standing up. “Thanks for the milkshake.”

 

He leaves the restaurant without saying anything else, and distantly, Tinsley realises he has to pay for him, but his brain is mostly focused on how utterly confusing his day has been - and it’s only 2:00PM.

 

Ricky Goldsworth is much more normal than Tinsley ever expected him to be. He doesn’t wear all black, have countless tattoos and piercings, have a cold look on his face all the time. He’s built, sure, but he’s just a person. A person with something so abnormal inside of him, an ability to detach and do whatever he pleases. In a strange and fucked up way, Tinsley envies him. He’s got so much power, so much confidence, and he doesn’t have a moral compass that weeps even when he accidentally forgets to open the door for the old lady (Janice) who lives in the apartment next door to him. And that makes Tinsley hate him even more.

 

.

 

The thing about working with your nemesis is it’s almost physically painful to not handcuff them and push them into your backseat. Whenever Goldsworth is around him, Tinsley has this  _ itch _ , this unexplainable need for justice. It’s understandable, because it’s his  _ job _ , but that doesn’t mean it’s not annoying.

 

It’s even more understandable that the next day, when he comes home from work, Goldsworth is sat on his couch, mug of tea in his hand, watching TV. When the mobster said they’d meet today, Tinsley didn’t exactly anticipate it to be in such an…  _ intimate  _ setting. Like his apartment.  _ God, Janice will be so freaked out _ , he thinks, before putting his keys back in his pockets and gingerly sitting next to Goldsworth.

 

“I’m not going to ask you how you got in here,” he starts. Tinsley doesn’t think he’s ever felt so  _ awkward _ in his own space before. His heart is racing and his palms are sweating, but he slouches back like he’s comfortable. Casual. Not having thirty different crises right now.

 

Goldsworth turns the TV off, turns to smirk at him. “Good, because I wouldn’t have told you.”

 

He cuts to the chase. “What do you know about Bennett?” Tinsley tries to narrow his eyes, look hard and intimidating, but it’s not really in his nature. Goldsworth could serenade him and Tinsley would probably still be intimidated.

 

(Distanly, he begins to wonder if he’s even cut out for being a detective.)

 

Goldsworth sighs, like it physically pains him to give away information. “I don’t know exactly where his base is now, but he used to live on Kings Street. His father’s some snooty business guy so I’d assume he’s got access to a lot of equipment. His favourite weapon is a standard kitchen knife because it’s not too bulky to carry around. Oh, wait - his new base is probably on Queens Street. He mentioned once that he’d want to set up shack there because it’d finish the royal theme, you know. What a weirdo.”

 

“And you aren’t?” questions Tinsley, raising an eyebrow. Goldsworth glowers at him. “How do you know all this?”

 

“He used to be part of my mob. Fuckin’ traitor robbed me and disappeared; next thing I knew, half my boys were dead.”

 

The weird thing is, Tinsley almost feels sorry for him. His moral compass is screaming that it’s karma for being in a mob in the first place, but he sympathises with losing everything. It sucks, whether you’re a model citizen or a murderer. “Sucks,” he says plainly. “Anything else?”

 

“His favourite time to attack is 9 in the eve’, ‘cause it’s dark enough not to get caught and it’s not too late for anyone to be on the lookout for suspicious activity.” That’s the only thing he’s heard from Goldsworth that makes even moderate sense. He scribbles the details in his notebook, underlining both the previous and current street names. “That’s all I’ve got.”

 

Tinsley hums, closes his notebook. “Do I get to know why you want me to protect Marchbank so badly?”

 

Goldsworth stiffens from beside him. “That,” he says carefully, standing up, “is none of your business.”

 

He leaves.

 

Half an hour later, Tinsley realises he took the mug with him.

 

.

 

When Tinsley hears a knock on his door that evening, there’s a part of him that wants - no,  _ expects  _ it to be Goldsworth in all his mysterious glory. But it’s Janice, and she’s got a biscuit tray in her arms. Tinsley smiles.

 

“The postman gave me your mail again!” explains Janice.

 

“Did he give you those cookies too?” he asks cheekily.

 

Janice laughs, loud and cheery. “No, these are for you and your friend.”

 

Tinsley raises an eyebrow. “My friend?” He’s confused for a moment, and realises she must mean Goldsworth, who he’d had that chaotic meeting with earlier. “Oh, you mean Ricky?”

 

“Yes, that’s the one! Lovely man, I ran into him when I went to get the groceries. We talked for so long I had to offer to bake something as an apology for keeping him from you so long!”

 

_ Lovely man? He broke into my apartment and stole a mug from me!  _ Tinsley thinks, scandalised that Goldsworth would stoop low enough to manipulate his next door neighbour - especially considering she was a sweet, vulnerable woman. Tinsley forces himself to agree, “Yeah, he’s just the loveliest. Sadly, he’s left know, but I’ll let him know you’ve delivered the cookies.”

 

Janice frowns. “Oh, such a shame. Have a good evening, C. C.!”

 

“You too, Janice.”

 

Tinsley can’t decide whether today or yesterday has been weirder. A part of him thinks that every day is probably going to be weird know he has Ricky Goldsworth in his life, because that’s sort of the way he is. A cold hearted murderer who is sweet to old ladies. The Vice President of a mob who also enjoys the sweetness of strawberry milkshakes. A strange, 5”9 walking contradiction.

 

It must be either karma or a bad coincidence that Tinsley is inclined towards solving mysteries.

 

.

 

Kings Street is quite possibly the very definition of run-down. Each house is small, some with missing window panes, the bricks weathered down and vandalised by graffiti artists. It’s raining, which Tinsley thinks could be some sort of poetic fallacy, and Goldsworth is nowhere to be seen. They were supposed to meet up to investigate at 8 o’clock, and it’s gone quarter past with no sign of him.

 

Logically, Tinsley knows Ricky Goldsworth is not a reliable person. He’s got other parts of his life that are much more important than fraternising with his enemy - or ex-enemy? But there’s a part of Tinsley that feels let down. They made a deal, didn’t they? Ricky said he’d help him out - why would he go back on it without any warning?

 

He goes home, not feeling well enough to do a full search of the area.

 

.

  
  
C. C. Tinsley has never really felt real before, but in this moment, he is hyper-aware of how completely  _human_ he is. He feels his pulse in his skull, heart beating so fast it's hammering in his chest - it almost feels constricted by his ribs. He feels every limb wishing, waiting to give out. His vision has blurred like he forgot his contacts or glasses, and his ears are ringing. But there's a clear sight he can make out in front of him: on his couch, Ricky, and on the floor, bound in rope, is Brent Bennett. He says, very calmly for how utterly startled he is, "Jesus Christ."

 

"Listen," starts Ricky. "I know we agreed we'd meet on Kings at 3, but plans change, right?"

 

"I don't know how they changed  _this_ much, Goldsworth!" exclaims Tinsley. From on the floor, Bennett snorts and mumbles something that sounds vaguely like  _me neither_ before Ricky kicks him in the side in lieu of saying  _shut up_.

 

Ricky frowns. "I caught him. I thought you'd be happy!"

 

"I'm fucking elated."

 

Ricky stands up, folding his arms over his chest. His forehead is creased, his expression unreadable. He sighs, shifts where he's standing. "What do you wanna do with him?"

 

"Turn him in, obviously," Tinsley replies.

 

"Well I was just going to kill him, but OK. I owe you one, so you can turn him into your fancy little police--"

 

"Detective!"

 

"--department. This is the part where you say, ' _oh, my saviour! I am so grateful_ ' and we run off into the sunset together."

 

Tinsley frowns. "It's dark outside, the next sunset won't be for 20 hours, give or take." Ricky shoots him a glare. "Thank you, Goldsworth."

 

It's strange how quickly Tinsley got over a tied-up mob leader in his living room. It's strange how relieved he feels after this, knowing that Ricky didn't just bail on him. That Ricky implied - unless Tinsley is reading too much into this - that he did it for him. Sure, it's not the nicest gesture in the world; most people would settle for flowers. But it's the thought that counts, right? At least, that's what Janice told him (he'd tried to make cupcakes as a thank you for everything she's done for him, but he ended up burning half of them and under-doing the rest).

 

The thing is, Tinsley doesn't hate Ricky anymore. He's proved cooperative, humorous and charming - in his own kind of way. He doesn't  _like_ Ricky, either. They've barely spoken about anything outside of Bennett and they've only known each other for a few days. So no, Tinsley does not like Ricky Goldsworth, but he is  _intrigued_ by him.

 

.

 

Captain Brunson suspends him for a month for going behind her back and working with the enemy. Tinsley is absolutely over the moon - he was so sure she'd fire him, because as forgiving as she can be, Brunson is a woman who appreciates loyalty above everything. Bennett is held captive until he confesses to everything - or, what he  _says_ is everything- he's done, then he's trialled and jailed.

 

The sky is blue again, and it feels fitting, because when he walks outside, Ricky is waiting for him.

 

"I'm leaving," is all he says, looking forlornly at Tinsley, whose expression drops.

 

"I'm staying." There's a moment of silence between them as they stare at each other, working out what to say. "Why are you leaving? Bennett's gone, you can go back to being mob supreme or whatever."

 

"Because I don't want this anymore. This whole - mob thing. And I can't be here, where people know me. So I'm leaving in the name of morality, or whatever."

 

"Ah, so I've made you see the light, is what you're saying," teases Tinsley.

 

"Shut up," says Ricky, grabbing him by the lapels and pulling their lips together. The kiss is short but passionate, tongueless but intimate. All Tinsley can think is  _oh_ _, everything makes sense_. "I'll write to you," he promises, taking Tinsley's hand and shaking it the same way they first did back at iHOB when they first decided to work together. Tinsley smiles. He knows that, even though Ricky is still leaving, this won't be the last he'll see of him.

 

That's just the way Ricky is.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I'm gonna do a part two. I got too invested and didn't have time to fit it into one. Will Ricky leave or stay - will Tinsley be with him? How will their relationship develop? Why is TJ so important? TBfuckingC.


End file.
